


between the sand and stone

by liginamite



Category: Preacher (TV)
Genre: Fix-It, Fluff, Hell, M/M, Post-Finale, Reunion Sex, little bit of angst at the beginning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 17:54:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7650745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liginamite/pseuds/liginamite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fiore had asked him if he would come back, if DeBlanc would brave Hell to pull him back out of the depths as Fiore had done for him. </p><p>Unequivocally. </p><p>He supposes that’s what love is, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	between the sand and stone

**Author's Note:**

> [curls around them] deblanc's alive and fiore will never be that sad again and they will kiss forever _shut up don't tell me otherwise fuck that finale_

The first thing he hears when he opens his eyes are the whispers of the other demons, flitting back and forth around him. 

_DeBlanc’s back._

Over and over again, a gentle prayer, _DeBlanc’s back-_ \- but no, he’s not in Heaven anymore. Those aren’t prayers, those aren’t the calls of the angels. There’s still a ringing in his ears, still a pulse between his eyes but when he reaches up and touches, there’s no blood, no raw bloody wound in his forehead. He looks down at his hands, at the blackened, scarred skin and the twisted nails and--

_DeBlanc’s back._

And there’s _no Fiore_. 

_What’s the matter, DeBlanc, Heaven was too boring for you?_

“Fiore!” His voice crackles, too hollow, sounds nothing like what he was used to when he had a human body. There’s an echo to it. “ _Fiore!_ ” 

He remembers staring down the barrel of a gun, remembers Fiore’s sturdy warm presence next to him as they stepped over strewn bodies. He remembers grizzled old eyes and Fiore’s terror coming off him in waves. 

_Where’s your angel, DeBlanc?_

He’s standing in a bland little room, in a bland little house, and Genesis’s domicile rests on the table in front of him, surrounded by scorch marks. It’s intact, sitting innocently until he darts forward. The lid’s off, and he grabs at it with his gnarled, twisted black fingers, stares into the insides to see where it’s scraped at and dented, finds where the little entity tried again and again to burst its way out. He turns it over again, but it’s empty. The whole house is empty. 

_You’re a traitor, DeBlanc._

Without thinking he tosses the domicile to the side, starts ripping through the simple couch cushions, he checks under every surface. He searches throughout the house, looks under the beds upstairs and in the closets and through every nook and cranny he thinks over and over, _where?_

Desperate, he calls out loud, “have you found him?” 

_No, not yet,_ comes the answer, the soft ring of Fiore’s voice from the basement. 

_What are you doing here, DeBlanc?_

He turns around, stares at the blank walls. The domicile is overturned on the floor and he rushes over, picks it up and stares into it. He hears the whispers over and over again, until he slowly curls around the little coffee can and closes his eyes. Around him, the walls begin to shudder and moan, and a spiderweb of cracks laces through the windows. 

He had never been one for praying, not even once, demons didn’t ever imagine such a thing was worth the time and effort, but--

When he opens them again, the domicile is back on the table. It is still empty, and he is still alone. He begins to tear through the house again, and faintly he can hear the shadowy echoes of Fiore doing the same. The house begins to shake.

“Fiore!” he calls again, as the empty picture frames clatter to the floor.

 _DeBlanc’s back,_ comes the answer, and then all is silent. 

_Welcome home._

\--

Though he relives the day, he never seems to find Fiore. 

It’s as though he is always just out of reach, always in the other room or just upstairs but whenever DeBlanc tries to reach him, he isn’t there. The moments restart, and the domicile sits innocently on the table in the kitchen, open and empty and mocking him. Sometimes he turns a corner and thinks he might see the shadow of a person. 

But Fiore is never there, and the other demons flit in and out of the house like flies to mock him. He just keeps looking, keeps shouting to Fiore in the other room and in the back of his mind he knows what’s going on here. 

Demons don’t typically experience Hell the same way humans do. They were created here, after all, molded by the fires and the cold in a counterpoint. Creation had been God’s jurisdiction until the Devil took matters into his own hands. When DeBlanc had last been to Hell, it had been different. He had been a spectator, had been part of the massive army sent to try and overthrow the other side. He had been the one hissing into the ears of the damned, whispered wicked little things until the souls screamed in their agony and burned in their grief. 

Most of the demons leave him alone now. They whisper amongst themselves about how he must’ve changed, to be granted a punishment of his own. To be stuck forever in a loop of searching and hoping and praying, stuck in the little shadow of their quiet corner of Heaven. One bed made, the other rumbled and warm. 

He rips open a closet door and stares into the emptiness. Genesis isn’t there either, and he almost slams it shut with force before taking a deep breath and pulling himself together. 

“Fiore!” he calls out again, turns back to make his way down into the kitchen as the house begins to shake again. 

He turns a corner, and Fiore is standing there with wide eyes and soot all over his face. They very nearly run into each other, and Fiore yelps and catches himself on the wall with windmilling arms. DeBlanc just steps back, blinking too hard and too fast and says before he can stop himself, “did you find him?” 

Fiore stares at him for a second, mouth working open and closed like he does when he’s trying to think before he says, very simply, “no.” 

They look at each other, stuck in a blank white hallway together. It’s cruel, to let it get so far that now he’s found Fiore, and so he swallows. 

“We have to keep looking,” DeBlanc says into the silence, shaken by the sudden reappearance of someone he’d never expected to see again, “he can’t have gone far, we just have to--”

“DeBlanc,” Fiore says quietly. His eyes look very wet, and the house has stopped shaking. 

DeBlanc looks down, stares at his hands. They’re tanned, broad and trembling slightly. Human fingers, human nails. He turns them over, stares at his palms. He flicks his eyes up, brings his eyebrows together to stare at the other. Fiore’s just staring down at him, an unreadable expression on his face. 

Finally, DeBlanc speaks.

“You’re here.” 

Fiore nods.

“You came back.” 

Another nod. 

“How?”

“I had to get another pass,” Fiore says in a small voice. “And she wasn’t very polite about it, neither.” 

There’s a part of DeBlanc that knows all too well what Hell does to someone, what it does to their perception of the world around them. It could be just another cruel trick, could be the other demons playing with him, toying with what they know he wants, what is always just out of reach. 

But Fiore reaches out, carefully, and touches his fingers to DeBlanc’s cheek in a mirror of the comforting gesture DeBlanc always gave to him. It’s just a small touch, just a glance of contact between the two of them, and he pulls away again. 

“I tried to find you, but…” he trails off, looks positively miserable. “They all attacked me. Said I wasn’t allowed to stay, so I had to leave and come back instead.” 

“You shouldn’t,” DeBlanc says instantly, grabbing at him. The sudden urge to shake him is overwhelming, but he keeps it in check. “You _shouldn’t_ stay, Fiore, it’s not safe down here. Not for you.” 

Eyes downcast at where DeBlanc is gripping at his wrists, Fiore purses his lips like he’s thinking, and then says carefully, “well, I had to come back for you. So here I am.” 

DeBlanc had not necessarily been expecting a particular answer, but that throws him for a loop. Fiore’s eyes are earnest and sincere when he looks back up at him and asks quietly, “wouldn’t you have come back for me?”

“Of course,” DeBlanc answers instantly. There’s no question of that. 

Fiore nods curtly. “So here I am,” he repeats. 

He looks utterly exhausted, he’s dirty and there’s still a bit of a tremor working through his body. But he is very, very real underneath DeBlanc’s hands, and he’s the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, and before he’s thought of the consequences of his actions DeBlanc’s moved his hands to cup Fiore’s jaw and pull him down.

When their lips meet, Fiore makes a soft noise of surprise. But he kisses back, flails a little with his hands like he’s not sure where to put them before he finds purchase grabbing the front of DeBlanc’s shirt. They haven’t kissed in a long time, didn’t have very much time at all on earth after Genesis escaped. 

It feels like it should be wrong in Hell, feels like it shouldn’t be allowed, and there are whispers around the house that tell DeBlanc it’s dangerous, that they should stop. But damned if he cares right now. 

When they break away, Fiore’s eyelashes flutter a little.

“...that still hurts my back,” he says, and his tone filled to the brim with relief and delight and the beginnings of a sob. 

DeBlanc gives him a light, playful slap to the cheek. 

\--

“I don’t like it here.” 

Fiore’s voice is quiet again. He’s walking gingerly around the fallen picture frames and examining the cracks in the walls with trepidation. He should look ethereal and glorious, the way he had when they used to live in the twin of this house, the real one above them back in Heaven. But their time on Earth has warped his appearance some. He doesn’t look very much like he used to in the face, still has his long nose and thin lips and sharp jawline from his human body. 

“It’s _Hell,_ ” DeBlanc says from behind him. “You’re not supposed to _like_ it.” 

He doesn’t get an answer, but then, he didn’t really expect one. Fiore peers into the bedroom, glass crunching underneath the heel of his boot. They had never needed to sleep in Heaven, not like they did on Earth (and even that had been more a luxury than anything else, a way to pull themselves together and recuperate), but the bed had… it had had other uses. 

“So this is... your Hell, then,” Fiore muses out loud. He sounds… sad, maybe. Or guilty. “Just… that day, repeating over and over again.” 

DeBlanc doesn’t answer that question, but his silence must do the trick because Fiore nods to himself and then shuts the door to the bedroom. He’s still wearing his cowboy hat, and that’s somehow the most bizarre thing of all. As if it matters what they’re wearing.

Fiore squares his shoulders and shuts the door, turning his back on the bedroom.

“We’re leaving,” he says firmly, and takes DeBlanc’s hand in his own to start marching. He’s warm and his fingers are calloused.

“We’re-- _what?_ Fiore, I don’t have a pass--”

“Neither did the Saint,” Fiore says briskly, still pulling DeBlanc along. If he didn’t know Fiore as well as he did, he wouldn’t be able to hear the tremble in his voice at the mention of the man. “And he got out fine, didn’t he?” 

The demons have started to notice that there’s someone else in Hell with them, someone who doesn’t belong. Their whispers are starting to get louder, angrier, more venom and poison to them. The hard set of Fiore’s mouth lets DeBlanc know that he hears it too. 

“Fiore--”

“I’m an angel.” Fiore’s voice is tight. “What good am I if I can’t raise someone out of Hell?” 

DeBlanc doesn’t have an answer to that-- _what good is he,_ as if Fiore isn’t plenty good on his own without needing some sort of purpose. So instead he follows, squeezes Fiore’s hand in his own. The demons are starting to get louder, starting to get more agitated as they realize that someone in the house _doesn’t belong._ Fiore’s hand is too warm.

“Fiore--” he tries again, but Fiore shakes his head and pulls him along. When he reaches for the doorknob, the house begins to shake again, and DeBlanc reaches out too, covers Fiore’s hand with his own to turn it. The bronze _burns,_ and around them the house begins to crumble. 

They wrench the door open with twin cries of exertion, and--

It’s anti-climatic, at best. 

They simply stumble off the bus into the sunlight, right to where their trunk is still sitting plain as day on the sand.

“No more _guests_ with you, angel,” the driver says to Fiore, sounding annoyed, and shuts the door behind him before driving away. The sun is beaming down on them, high in the sky, and they’re suddenly left with no options. 

“...well,” DeBlanc says, looking around and brushing himself off. He’s covered in soot and ash, still in the same clothes as when the Saint had killed him. He feels like he’s been trampled by a pack of horses, and the thought of a plush bed sounds positively wonderful. “We should probably come up with a plan.”

“Well, we can’t go back to the motel.” As if it’s an afterthought he transfers his hat to DeBlanc’s bare head. He must’ve left his hat back in Hell. “We can’t actually go back to Annville at all.” 

DeBlanc has to lift his head to look over the brim of Fiore’s hat.

“Why?”

“It exploded,” Fiore says simply, and sits down hard on the trunk. DeBlanc waits, more than a bit confused, but when he doesn’t get a further response he shrugs and sits down on the trunk, too. Their knees knock together, but neither of them move away from the touch. 

“Well, we should go _somewhere_ with a shower,” DeBlanc says finally. “You’re bloody filthy.” 

“I’ve just been to Hell, _twice,_ ” Fiore says petulantly, like however long it’s been has never happened, like everything is already just a blip on the radar. It’s all in the past, for now. “Excuse me if I’ve had a bit of a dirty weekend.”

DeBlanc raises an eyebrow.

“Have you, now?”

“Oh, sod off, DeBlanc.” Fiore’s beaming now, and the happiness there nearly outweighs the sun bearing down on the both of them. DeBlanc finds himself smiling too, and where only their knees had been touching now their thighs are as well, and their shoulders. Fiore sighs. “We could probably stand to find a motel, though.” 

DeBlanc nods, and as one they lean down to pick up the trunk again. 

They do manage to find a motel, and it takes some digging around in the trunk before DeBlanc can unearth his wallet and hand it over to the man behind the desk. But then they’re given keys and instructions to not mess up the room too badly and suddenly everything slows down to a full stop. 

The trunk lands on the floor with a resonating _thunk._

“Always two beds,” Fiore mutters under his breath. DeBlanc huffs out a laugh. 

The shower isn’t really big enough for the pair of them, between Fiore’s height and DeBlanc’s stocky bulk, so DeBlanc sits on the toilet while Fiore washes himself off first, watches black water run down into the sink. 

It’s oddly human, sitting in the bathroom like that. He watches Fiore rinse the shampoo out of his hair, watches him scrub the soot off his face and neck and behind his ears. And when they switch, Fiore just towels off and sits down on the toilet lid, too. They don’t say anything, and if DeBlanc notices Fiore’s eyes are a little red, well, he doesn’t mention that either. 

The bed is scratchy underneath the duvet, and the pillows are a little too flat, but DeBlanc has no margin of error for motel beds besides the Sundowner and the few motels they stayed in before they found Genesis in Annville. It’s comfortable enough, and the thought of getting to indulge in sleep is welcome. 

But when DeBlanc closes his eyes, their old house shakes and crumbles down around him. 

He sits up. 

The walls have flowers on them, in shades of yellow and brown and red. The television is off, and there’s a little fridge underneath the bedstand. Nothing is blank and white, and the frames on the walls have pictures of landscapes and house instead of absolutely nothing. Fiore tugging on one of the undershirts from their trunk over his head, but he looks over when DeBlanc blinks down at his hands. They’re still human, which is a small comfort. 

The bed dips as Fiore sits down next to him. 

Neither of them says anything. They’ve gone a long time in their very long lives without _needing_ to say anything for the other to simply know. It’s comes with centuries of spending time together, getting to learn each other inside and out. And Fiore must know that words are unnecessary, because he only sits there in silence until the two of them finally lay back down together, side by side. 

-

DeBlanc doesn’t recall falling asleep, but when he wakes up, the room is dark and the digital clock on the bedside tells him it’s a little after two in the morning. Fiore’s still passed out next to him, one arm flung over DeBlanc’s waist. There’s a lot of him, gangly as he is, but there’s enough room on the bed that it’s comfortable. 

It takes a while for DeBlanc’s eyes to adjust to the dark, but eventually he focuses on Fiore’s sleeping face, only a few inches from his. For a while, he only watches Fiore sleep. His eyes move underneath their lids, and his lips are parted as he breathes slowly. It’s the calmest he’s looked since they first came to earth.

Slowly, DeBlanc reaches out, runs one of his fingers down the long bridge of Fiore’s nose, across his cheekbones, over the strange mark under his one eye, down to where his lips are dry from sleep. His eyelashes are long and there are dots of freckles here and there from the harsh Texas sun.

Fiore had asked him if he would come back, if DeBlanc would brave Hell to pull him back out of the depths as Fiore had done for him. 

Unequivocally. He supposes that’s what love is, after all. 

He keeps touching, light enough that it’s more a tickle, but eventually Fiore takes a deep breath and his eyes open slowly. He looks confused for a moment, trying to blink away the sleep from his eyes, but eventually he registers the way that DeBlanc is mapping his face with his fingers, and there’s an exhausted smile budding.

“What’re you doing?”

DeBlanc doesn’t answer. 

They haven’t been intimate since Heaven--simply haven’t had the _time,_ and if they were to act more responsible they’d be figuring out their next move instead of indulging in things that are too human, too new to them. And there’s absolutely a blaring alarm in DeBlanc’s head saying that they _need_ to get back out there, need to find the preacher and Genesis, but--

Fiore makes the decision for them both, closing the distance between the two of them easily. His lips are still dry and he’s got some morning breath, but so does DeBlanc, and he doesn’t _care,_ he doesn’t care that there’s disaster looming on the horizon for the both of them in the form of a preacher and an old cowboy, because he’s just been to Hell again and they have no plan, no course of action, and it’s the damned middle of the night. 

With a grunt Fiore’s rolling over so that he’s on top of him and they reach for each other, still working out the kinks of human kissing, figuring out where limbs should go and how they should arrange themselves to be more comfortable. There’s a heat between DeBlanc’s legs that sends a ripple of want up his spine when Fiore’s knee presses there, and he groans. 

“We shouldn’t,” Fiore mutters, shivering and closing his eyes when DeBlanc’s fingers run through his short hair.

“Absolutely not,” DeBlanc agrees, lifts his hips so that Fiore can tug his underwear down around his thighs. 

They’ve done this in Heaven. They’ve done this more times then they can count, but in human bodies there’s something more visceral, something raw and new to the pair of them. Humans have strange bodies indeed, but bare skin touching is a good place to start. They’re wearing very little as it is, accustomed to the idea of sleepwear mostly from the television having constantly been on during their downtime in Annville. 

But warm human skin sliding against skin is _new._ Fiore groans above him, falling down onto his forearms with his face buried in DeBlanc’s neck. It must be scratchy there, it’s going to leave raw little scrapes against his smooth cheek, but then Fiore mouths at his skin and rocks his hips a little and any concerns DeBlanc might have get tossed out the window. 

DeBlanc tugs at Fiore’s hair, pulls him back up-- and there _are_ little pink patches on his cheeks, and he thinks of all the other sensitive places he could put little marks like that, thinks about them enough that he groans and pulls Fiore down for another kiss. 

It takes him a moment to realize that there are tears brimming in the corners of Fiore’s eyes. They don’t fall, but it’s enough for DeBlanc to pull back a little, slide his hands down from Fiore’s hair to his cheeks. But before he can ask what’s wrong, Fiore answers for him.

“Didn’t think we’d get to do this again,” he mutters, and only sniffs once. “I. I was _scared,_ DeBlanc. Thought you were gone for good for a bit, there, before I pulled myself together. I didn’t know what to do, you know.” He looks away. “Without you.” 

The reality of the statement sinks in, slowly. He almost was. Hell wasn’t the easiest to escape; when the preacher had asked if they could retrieve the sheriff’s son, DeBlanc had answered honestly. You don’t just _get out_ of Hell. That’s the point. But Fiore had looked at the preacher, and he has said yes, and now DeBlanc knows why. Angels can do more than he thought. 

“I didn’t either,” DeBlanc admits softly, rubs away a tear threatening to escape with his thumb. “Frightening down there, you know.” 

Fiore hums his reply, and kisses him again. It’s sweet and hard at the same time, all the passion and worry there in the way he shifts his knees until their hips are pressed together. DeBlanc groans again, and then in one quick motion turns them over, presses Fiore into the rumbled bedsheets and nearly laughs at the shocked look on his face. 

“You absolute bastard,” Fiore tells him, and then arches in shock when DeBlanc leans down to bite at his neck, leaves more of those raw little scratches on all that soft, pale skin. Working out what feels good and what doesn’t is easy for the both of them, Fiore’s hands scrambling down the length of DeBlanc’s back. 

Fiore makes a wounded sound when DeBlanc wraps a hand around him, tries to figure out a pace that will wring more noises like that out of him. They find a motion together, DeBlanc rocking down and Fiore rocking up, both of them working out the rhythm until that pleasure peaks. DeBlanc’s breathing hard, chasing that feeling while Fiore does the same, both of them trying to take care of the other in the same motions.

There’s a thump as Fiore’s fist hits the comforter once and he sobs, entire body shaking through his orgasm until DeBlanc stops touching--he doesn’t _want_ to stop, but Fiore’s stuttering hands come up between his legs as well, find his cock and DeBlanc has to brace himself on the bed instead, head falling down nearly to his chest as he groans weakly. 

That feeling of pleasure peaks and rushes through him, the feeling of it cresting in waves as Fiore’s hand moves steadily but tiredly.

They sit like that for a while, DeBlanc sitting back on Fiore’s thighs, Fiore’s fingers tracing exhausted little patterns here and there on DeBlanc’s skin. They’re both sweaty and there are streaks of white across the tiny bit of pudge in Fiore’s stomach. They’ll both need to take another shower, DeBlanc thinks. 

“That was nice,” Fiore finally says, breaking the silence. There’s a tremble in his voice again, but when DeBlanc looks over Fiore quickly throws an arm over his eyes and sets his mouth in a straight, firm line. But his shoulders are trembling again.

“It was,” DeBlanc agrees softly. He gives Fiore a chance to pull himself together again. He manages to hobble over to their bathroom, finds a rag and wets it, sneaks a peek out into the room before he comes back to clean off Fiore’s stomach and chest. Fiore watches, and there’s a distant look in his eyes. 

“What should we do now?” he asks carefully, when DeBlanc makes his way back to the bed.

“I’d reckon we’d sleep a little more.” 

Fiore’s mouth thins even more, somehow.

“After that, then.”

DeBlanc sighs, watches as Fiore’s eyes track his movements. He settles himself down against Fiore’s side, rests his head in the soft space just under his arm. Fiore wraps that arm around him, until they’re pressed tightly together, and DeBlanc welcomes the contact.

“I don’t know,” he admits, after some contemplation. “We’ll have to come up with a plan. We still have our mission, and… and we’ll have to fulfill it, somehow. That’s what matters.” 

Fiore’s chest rises and falls in a huge sigh, and DeBlanc can feel the nod above him. 

“You’re back,” Fiore whispers, and that tremor in his voice hasn’t gone away. “That’s all that matters, right now.” 

DeBlanc thinks of the whispers of Hell again. The demons that circled the little house, the empty domicile, the unmade bed with not a soul to lay in it. It’s still there, not so far beneath their feet. He reaches up, brushes his knuckles against Fiore’s cheek. He’s warm, and he’s very real, and there is a love there that DeBlanc cannot put a name to beyond _Fiore._

“I’m back,” he agrees, and the _thanks to you_ is unspoken. 

**Author's Note:**

> comments are love!!!
> 
> come talk preacher with me on [tumblr!](http://hullums.tumblr.com)


End file.
